Stairway to Heaven
by Blackened Disposition
Summary: {Ch. 2 uploaded} Seifer is the target. Luke is a framed murderer. Squall, Quistis, and a female Galbadian police officer are their only allies. What's at stake? Only five lives and world war.
1. Resonance

{Disclaimer: Led Zeppelin owns the title, Square owns most of the characters.}  
  
Stairway to Heaven  
  
Barry Greyhaim lived alone in a small, one-room home in suburban Deling City. Though most men of fifty-six would find the concept of living in a one-room home to be a bit behind the times, Barry found it quite appealing, mainly to his wallet. He lived in a bedroom above his place of work, which consisted of a single desk inside a single office with one window and a door, reading "Barry W. Greyhaim - Attorney at Law". Having no middle initial, he had simply decided that "W" was quite appropriate and dignified enough for a lawyer. He liked his housing arrangement because he paid rent only for a single building, and though it was a bit of a hassle to be forced to go down a flight of stairs to use a restroom, this mere fact hardly deterred Barry from living according to his bank account. Barry hated lawyers, and lawyers hated him. This was mainly because Barry didn't even have a license to practise it. The truth was that Barry had been a martial arts instructor for nearly thirty years before a small incident between President Vinzer Deling of Galbadia and Headmaster Victor Martine of Galbadia Garden concerning the assassination of another very prominent man whom both Martine and Deling wanted dead. Barry, by mere chance, came to know more than he should have known about the little altercation, and in turn, was shot and wounded by a man employed by Deling to do that very thing. When Martine found out that this had happened, and Deling found out that he had not been killed, both were immediately concerned for press leaks. Barry's left leg had to be amputated, thus eliminating his line of work, lifelong passion, and skill. He had already identified the gunman, and threatened to squeal on Deling and let the rest of the world in on what Martine and the President were fighting about as a little recompense for his misfortune. He was given a substantial monthly salary written off as an unemployment check in exchange for his silence. Knowing he had no choice but to accept the offer, Barry conceded. However, he wasn't keen on getting "something for nothing", so he set up a small hot dog stand on a prominent street corner as a cover for selling high-proof alcohol at an extremely low price. Barry had a lot of respect for beer.  
  
On the evening of Tuesday, September twenty-ninth, Barry was returning from a late stay at the local bar. His massive affinity for Jack Daniels' was beginning to ensure seven hangovers a week; tonight, Barry had vehemently decided that he loved beer, but not enough to drink himself to near death the following morning. He was quite sober, in fact, when he unlocked the door to his office/home, and stepped inside, instinctively locking it behind him. The office looked as drab as always. The papers that Barry had artfully scattered about the desk were as they always had been: collecting a bit of dust, but still realistic enough, considering that he had no clients to speak of. He kicked off his shoes at the door and headed upstairs, hoping to catch a bit of sleep before being waked at five A.M. by the trains.   
  
He reached the top step, and stopped. Something had apparently fallen out of his pocket, because he heard something hit the carpeted stair below him. He attempted to turn around, but was cut short by an arm wrapping itself tightly around his neck. He felt himself being thrown to the ground, at the mercy of two men, each gripping one of his shoulders uncomfortably. He struggled vainly, receiving naught but several punches to keep him subdued.  
"This him?"  
"Yeah, the leg's fake."  
"Okay."  
The left man leaned in quite close to Barry's face. "All right, old man. You probably wanna know who we are, and what we're doing here, and why we're doing this to you. Well, I'll answer the last two for you. Simply put, buddy, you just know too damned much. That wasn't a problem before. Your black ass stayed quiet, but now, things are getting a bit thicker. You're gonna die. It probably won't hurt too badly."  
Barry sneered, though he was much more confused and afraid than he was amused. "Gonna kill me? Go right 'head. Nobody'll miss me, y'know. 'Cept maybe Louise, and I ain't talked to her about nothin'."  
"Yeah, Louise. Don't worry, she's not involved, so it's no big deal. We'll kill her if we have to, but not unless she sticks her nose where it doesn't belong."  
"I don' get it. Who you tryin' to get to, huh? I tell you what, though, I know you mus' be from the gov'ment. Damn, always messin' with people in the wrong place at the wrong time. I ain't broke my word, why you wanna break yours?"  
He felt a gun pressed against the side of his head. "You seem a bit too convinced that you're not going to die. Take my word for it, Barry: you're a dead m-  
Knock knock.  
"Fuck. Hey," he waved his free hand at his companion, "go take care of that."  
'Now's my shot. Gotta call Luke...'  
Barry moved quickly to his right and connected with a right hook to the man's temple.  
'Gotta get Luke...'  
He hobbled toward the phone, half-hoping that his captor had been knocked unconscious.  
'Call Luke...'  
A stabbing pain seeped through his head like a white-hot dagger. He felt himself go weak at the knees, and for a moment, it seemed like the tail end of a dream. The dream ended quickly.  
  
  
{28 hours later}  
  
Lucas Greyhaim groped blindly in the darkness in an attempt to silence the squealing phone at his bedside. Dark eyes still closed, he grabbed it from its receiver and placed it to his ear without a word of greeting.  
"Luke?"  
His eyes opened. "Louise?"  
"Hey, Luke... I'm real sorry to be callin' this late, but... I'm worried about Barry. He wasn't out at all today, and he's not answering his phone."  
"Probably hung over or something. I wouldn't worry too much," Lucas replied, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the clock. Three thirty.  
"I know Barry, so I wasn't too worried, but about two hours ago, a man parked out front of my house and hasn't moved since. I was scared to open my door, so I've just been watchin' out through the blinds. I called Barry again and he didn't answer. Something's goin' on, Lucas, I know it, and I'm scared about it. He always answers his phone, 'cause don't too many people call him."  
"There's a man outside your house?"  
"Yeah."  
"What's he doing?"  
"Nothing, just sittin' in his car, watchin'..."  
Lucas stood up and stretched. "Okay, I'll be over there in a minute. Don't go outside; just stay where you are. It's probably nothing, but if he's been there for two hours, I'll tell him to get lost."  
"It's not me I'm most worried about."  
"I've got a key, I'll check on him."  
"Thanks, Luke."  
"No problem. See you in a minute, Louise."  
  
  
A tall, solidly-built Omar Forne stood rigidly in front of the large windows of his office, the remnants of the city lights twinkling down below. He brushed a hand meaninglessly over his bald head, and straightened his tie. He wasn't pleased.  
"Last night," he repeated to himself. "Last night. It was last night, and now it's being taken care of?"  
"Yes. The information was a bit late in circulating as far as Tymorre, it seems."  
"And whose fault is that?"  
"Theirs, most likely."  
"Two of them. Two of them, and they screwed up in more ways than I ever thought possible. The whole thing was a mess, and they failed in informing the correct people that the mess they made needed to be tidied up."  
"Sloppy."  
He shook his head. "Very sloppy. I can't believe I have people like that working under my jurisdiction."  
"Technically, they're not under you. He pays them, after all."  
"He pays me, too. And very well for this entire job. I want it done right, not fucked up at every corner."  
"I understand."  
"Did Simmons find anything?"  
"That's what I was just coming to. Your op has a coincidental connection with your last target."  
"And what's that?"  
"Adoptive father-son relationship."  
"Well, it shouldn't be a problem, really. We're not hiring his personal life."  
"It could get in the way."  
"We'll just deal with it if it does."  
"All right. Anything else I should tell him, Omar?"  
"Nothing I can think of. But I want this cleaned up, Vasher, and no leaks. I don't want him finding their muddy tracks all over my carpet."  
"No problem."  
"Is Kyam ready?"  
"Yes. She made the call as we anticipated. He's on his way now."  
  
  
Luke walked quietly down the empty street toward Louise's intersection, absently scratching his neck with one hand and securing the loaded M93R handgun into his belt with the other. He soon noticed that the reason for the irritation about his neck was that his shirt was on backwards, so he jerked it off and removed the tag, the source of the itch. Lucas was a tall, well-built, lean man of twenty-two, with jet-black hair that hung unchecked at his shoulders. His tanned skin seemed to go well with dark colours, so most everything he owned was either black, navy blue, or dark brown. He had eyes of a steel-like blue, and with his only other distinguishing features being facial scars and a large, black tattoo of three overlapping, foreign characters representing the phrase "Zan-Tetsu-Ken" tattooed downward from left to right over his back, most people thought he was a foul-tempered drug pusher of some sort. He did no drugs of any sort, though he did smoke occasionally during winter to get his mind off the cold.  
  
He reached the street corner and peeked around to his right; Louise Jackson's small, delapidated brick house stood two similar homes away, and sure enough, a small blue car was parked out front, its engine silent. Luke had to admit she had a major point; even if she hadn't called and he had seen it on his own, he would've wondered what an expensive-looking car was doing in this part of town. He continued his walk down the battered footpath, occasionally checking his back out of anxiety and trying to appear inconspicuous. The driver did not move. Luke was quite close now, and moved from the footpath to the street so that he had access to the driver's side of the car. Still no movement from the car. He pulled the handgun from his belt and clicked off the safety. Angling his head to the left and raising the weapon out in front of him, he peered inside the car window from a perfect viewpoint: it was empty. Puzzled, he reached for the handle and pulled. It was unlocked. His steel blue eyes shifted down to a scrap piece of stationery on the seat, a bit of neatly-scribed writing visible on its surface. Luke picked it up and read:  
  
'Surprise, Lucas.'  
  
His head jerked up and connected with the top of the car, his brain now registering searing pain in the back of his head and his stomach falling down below his kneecaps. He left the car door open and sprinted up toward the front door, kicking it open violently and flicking on the light switch. The door had been locked, he noticed; his ill-balanced kick had both touched a large nerve in his leg and ripped the deadbolt lock completely out of the wall. The kitchen was exactly as he knew it; nothing had been touched. A few bottles of Jack Daniels' sat on the counter next to the refridgerator, likely for Barry's future consumption. A faint glow tickled the linoleum floor from the hall corridor, likely originating in the sitting room. Rooted to the spot, Luke forced himself onward, making as little sound as possible. He turned the corner quickly, and looked away as quickly as he had made the turn. His eyes burned with hot tears as he stood, clenching the weapon in his hand: this could not be real.  
  
  
  
"You want me to come in, I'll come in. Just the coroner or somebody over there. I gave you the address, I assume you wrote it down. Put your goddamn doughnuts away and listen to me," Lucas barked, speeding down the road toward Barry's apartment.  
"Yes, sir, I have it written down, and two units have been notified, as has the hospital," replied the female officer on the other end of the line. She had previously been rather short with him, likely because of her shift, but had mellowed out considerably when Lucas showed all the signs of being angrier than a maternal cobra whose eggs had been smashed.  
"There's a difference between 'notified' and 'dispatched'," Lucas replied. "Send somebody to the Greyhaim address right now to meet me. I've got reason to believe something happened there, as well."  
"Sir, at this hour-  
"...most of the more violent crimes are being committed," Lucas replied through gritted teeth. "Get with the fucking program, dammit. I'm calling to report one, perhaps two homicides and you act like I've called the Sonic for a cheeseburger at four in the morning. You're supposed to be enforcing the law, not sitting your fat asses on top of the books."  
"Sir, I understand that you're upset, and I assure you that we are moving as quickly as possible to meet your need."  
"Yeah, whatever. Just make sure you get somebody there, or I'll make sure the lot of you have to find different jobs."  
"Yes, sir."  
Lucas hung up Louise's cell phone, cursing the woman's sarcasm to no end, and coming to a screeching halt in front of the "Barry W. Greyhaim" sign. He had already called Barry three or four times, and yelled out to him on the answering machine, but got no answer. He was almost certain of what he would find if he entered, but still disbelieving; there were two words on the note, and one of them was his name. He wracked his brain trying to come up with suspects, but couldn't think clearly at all, considering the circumstances.   
  
Barry's door was unlocked. Luke entered quietly, closing it behind him on impulse, the handgun still clutched painfully tight in his right hand. He kept his eyes peeled as he walked up the stairwell, holding the weapon out in front of him. He entered the moonlit room to find Barry in the same state that Louise had been in: three bullets to the head at point-blank range. Dark, dried blood tainted his black skin and the carpeted floor; Luke could hardly take in the scene. He had seen things like this before, but none had been as close as immediate family... He forced himself to focus his eyes on something other than Barry's face. They came to rest on a standard size manila folder that Barry seemed to be holding, but on closer inspection, Luke noticed that someone had done a poor job of making him appear to be holding it, when in fact it had simply been forced into his limp hand. Though against his better judgement, he reached out and grabbed it, careful not to spill its contents onto the floor. It contained two documents: one being another note, the other a profile of a blond-haired man. Luke read the note with clenched teeth; the handwriting was the same as the one he had previously found. Ornate, loopy, and neat, as if forcing a smug, superior grin in the face of his grief.  
  
'My condolences on your loss, Lucas. Believe it or not, your connection with Mr. Greyhaim here was purely coincidental, though as you can see, it worked out splendidly for our cause. I'll tell you more in person; be at the west end of the train station tomorrow afternoon around five. The photograph enclosed will be our next casualty if you choose not to show. Your connection to him is, unfortunately, intentional rather than coincidental. And please, don't bother showing any of this to the authorities. I assure you that our hands are much faster than theirs.'  
  
Luke scanned the photograph numbly. The man appeared to be around eighteen or nineteen: green eyes, sharp facial features, hardened expression... Luke's attention was suddenly grabbed by the resemblance he and the photographed man held; they looked more than somewhat alike. His eyes flicked down to the name.  
  
Almasy, Seifer Allan  
  
He sunk down against the wall, hardly able to believe it. Keeping his wits about him, he discarded the folder and stuffed the note into his pocket, his eyes still watching the photograph with rapt attention. He sat for what seemed like an eternity, just staring from the picture, to the name, and back again... Sirens finally sounded outside the building. Luke didn't move at all, nor could have even if he had so desired. Keeping the information from the cops was no problem, as he was already frustrated enough with them to beat them all to a pulp with a baseball bat. Five o'clock tomorrow. He would be there. He couldn't afford to not be present; he wasn't about to lose his only living relative again, after he had spent most of his life thinking Seifer was dead. But there was no mistaking it. Even if the name weren't enough, the picture was: Luke was undoubtedly staring into the still face of his younger brother. 


	2. Down in a Hole

A/N: I'm changing several things about the FF8 world, namely RPG material that needs to be tampered with in order to make the story more interesting (i.e. minor character age changes, more cities, more detail, etc.) Don't be alarmed. Just open your mind and enjoy if you can.  
  
{Sand rains down and here I sit, holding red flowers in a tomb... ~Alice in Chains, "Down in a Hole"}  
  
  
Luke didn't ordinarily smoke; he tried not to make a habit out of something so noxious, but there was an ashtray in the room, and he had a pack with him. He now sat, holding his head in his hands and shirtless, in a small chair inside the stifling interrogation room 3A of the Galbadian police department. He didn't have a watch, so he couldn't tell how long it had been since he'd arrived, but truth be told, he had no idea what he'd say when they started to question him. His first thought was that he looked, more than anything, guilty of the crimes. He was the only one with fingerprints at the scene, the only one who appeared to have come in or out of either residence before the police, and the only witness of any kind. On the other hand, they would have a very difficult time labeling him insane, and his level of grief was undeniably high. But, as he thought bitterly to himself, people who appeared more shaken than he had been convicted in the past. Telling the police that he was collected by nature wasn't going to help, and it was really a lie.   
  
The heavy door opened and shut again with such a loud slam that Luke dropped his cigarette. He simply stomped it out with his boot in lieu of retrieving it, and looked up as a short, portly man sat down across from him. He appeared to be about forty; he wasn't an attractive man, and his hair (or what was left of it) was plastered down to his forehead with a sort of mousse that the first word that came to Luke's mind in description was "aggressive". However, his speech was sharp, clear, and very to-the-point.  
  
"May I ask why you have removed your shirt?"  
"It started sticking to my skin. It's hot in here. Can we get this over with, please?"  
"Yes," he replied, fingering the record button of a small tape recorder. "My name is officer Larry Birken."  
"Whatever. Let's get this over with, then, Officer Larry Birken."  
He pressed a stubby finger against the record button, clicking it on. "Please state your name for the record."  
"Shane Lucas Greyhaim."  
"Is that your full name?"  
"Yes."  
"Where were you at midnight on the evening of Wednesday, September thirtieth?"  
"Asleep."  
"At your home?"  
"Yes."  
"Apartment 212 in the Frederick St. complex?"  
"Congratulations, you've looked me up in the phone book. This is ridiculous," he sighed, allowing his head to dangle. "As if I'm not tired."  
"This is protocol. Why did you go to Ms. Jackson's home?"  
"Because she called me and told me a man had been outside her house for two hours."  
"This is alarming to you because?"  
"Wouldn't it be alarming to you?"  
Birken rubbed a pudgy hand pointlessly over the top of his head. "Let me rephrase the question. What is your relationship with Ms. Jackson?"  
"She was Barry's girlfriend for three years."  
"So you were friends with her, also?"  
"Yeah, I loved the woman to death."  
"That will do, thank you. What did you find when you arrived?"  
"The door was locked. I knocked and nobody answered, so I kicked the door in, and I found her in the sitting room. She'd been shot three times in the head with what looked like a high-caliber pistol. There were no signs of forced entry."  
"Why did you leave the house for Mr. Greyhaim's?"  
"Because she told me she hadn't heard from him all day, and I was worried about him. I called him three times and he didn't answer."  
"So you went home, got in your car, and called the police department."  
"Yes. I talked to this bitch who didn't seem keen on doing anything about it."  
"That will do," Birken said again, more sharply than before. "What did you find when you entered Mr. Greyhaim's home?"  
"Basically the same thing. His door was unlocked, though."  
"All right. Thank you," he clicked off the recorder. "Not a very convincing testimony. You are aware that all evidence points to your involvement in this crime?"  
"No, because you have no evidence that I did anything except what I just told you. You can't convict me just because I was the only witness."  
"I'm aware of that."  
"I assure you that I wouldn't kill the only two people in the world that love me. What I saw is what happened from my perspective."  
"Touching," he replied listlessly.  
"Fuck off," Luke replied simply. "If this is it, I'm going home."  
Birken stood up. "I'm afraid-  
"Look, unless you want the entire department to question me, I'm ready to get some sleep. Today ranks up there as one of the shittiest days of my life."  
"Stay in town. We'll be contacting you again."  
"Whatever."  
Luke threw his sweat-soaked shirt over his shoulder, not even bothering to put it on. Birken obviously disapproved from the look on his face, but for all Luke cared, Birken could have asked him to get on the table and dance: he was leaving, regardless. He threw the door open and walked loudly through the hallway toward the door; there were very few officers in the building, but those present were staring at him.  
"Nice tattoo."  
He wheeled around to face a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, more than a head shorter than he. Her attractive face held something of a smirk, and she was clothed in a dark brown jacket that nearly touched her shoes. The look was completed with a tight-looking blue shirt that bore the insignia "DCPD", written in gold across the chest. The shirt was obviously intended for a small man.  
"Don't worry about them. They stare at all the criminals," she threw her head out toward the other policemen walking about, drinking coffee and eating breakfast.   
"What do you want?"  
"I'm Detective Kara Manson. I'll be working on your case."  
"Detective Manson, huh?"  
"I've heard all the jokes, so don't even."  
"I was just getting your name," said Luke evenly. "I'm disappointed. I really wanted to work with Fat Bastard on this."  
"He's just a cop."  
"I was being extremely sarcastic. Look, I want to go home. If you people need me anymore, you'll have to call me."  
"I will. Did you tell him everything you saw?"  
"Yeah, just ask him if you want to know. He seems to think I all but came in here with the blood on my hands and the gun in my back pocket."  
"I know, but you must admit that it looks an awful lot like you're guilty. Especially to an idiot like Birken."  
"And you believe I'm not?" he raised an eyebrow.  
"I have a lead. No, I believe that you're innocent."  
"Whatever."  
She slipped him a piece of paper with a neat, black scrawled phone number. "That's my cell number. Call me if you hear anything else, though I'll probably be way ahead of you. And by the way, you do have a bit of red liquid on your shirt. That might've been what alarmed Birken. Initially."  
  
He turned once again and headed outside. The sun could not have picked a worse day to shine, and it seemed that his eyes had a lovely sense of irony. The autumn leaves on the trees planted all about the city ceaselessly fluttered downward toward the busy streets, packed with weekday morning traffic. Deling City was, without much doubt, the largest city in Galbadia, though most people thought that the recent christening by the disliked President was sort of a joke. Most still called it Lydeia, as it had been before, though all the maps, periodicals and the like had been changed to reflect the President's audacity. Though Deling City had a bad reputation abroad for its hated President and astronomical crime rate, what Luke saw was just a typical Thursday morning at rush hour.  
  
He walked out to his car, parked haphazardly against the curb in front of the station, only to notice a small slip of paper placed underneath the car's one working wiper. A parking violation ticket. Though it was plain that his charcoal-black El Camino was blocking the adjacent lane, it was the signature on the slip of parchment that made his blood boil: L. Birken. Luke rolled his eyes as he jammed the ticket into his pocket and got into the car; it made perfect sense now. Birken had hated him before they had even met, because he had received a traffic ticket. Manson was right; he really was "just a cop".  
  
He fumbled around for his keys, trying to keep his mind relatively blank and just get himself home. His hands came across several familiar possessions as he felt around, most importantly a loaded and armed M93R handgun, which should probably not have been on the floor and in plain view. He clicked the safety on instinctively, tossed the weapon aside, and rescued his keys from beneath the cold metal barrel of the pistol. He jammed the key into the ignition, turned it sharply, and let his head hang between his outstretched arms resting on the wheel.   
  
Reality. Dreams. What is there to separate them, excluding the human mind? If such were indeed the case, Luke was having a terrible nightmare. This entire ordeal seemed much less real than a number of nightmares he'd had in the past. Cars sped past him, people chatted over doughnuts at breakfast across the street at the coffee shop... but he was outside of that, absorbed in a turbulent world of inexplicable numbness and helplessness. By the time he reached the Frederick St. apartment complex, he was teetering on the verge of tears. He made a point of waiting until he reached his apartment to allow himself to cry, but as he sat down on the sofa, he didn't feel much like crying anymore.  
  
  
Twenty-nine year old Andy Vasher wasn't a big man by any stretch of the imagination; in fact, most people would say that he resembled a rat. He was short, painfully thin, rather unattractive, with a long face and unruly brown, wiry hair, and possessed the thinnest pair of lips known to man. However, his physical qualities did not detract from his professional ones: Vasher got the job done right. This, of course, was why Forne liked him. His team made no mistakes.  
"No complications?"  
"No," Vasher voiced, "Tymorre got there before they did. Worst that could've happened was a bit of loose dust."  
"Good," Forne replied. "It's a shame."  
"It is. Very unfortunate. Kyam didn't enjoy it."  
"Of course not; he's a soldier, not a monster."  
"Yet he sometimes works for monsters," Vasher's thin lips contorted into a smirk. Forne was unamused.  
"You'll be meeting him at five o'clock today. Make sure you're there, and make contact with B-Garden. We need word on Almasy."  
"Done. He's headed out for a field exam today. Being dispatched to Dollet to help fight off the Galbadians."  
Forne remained stationary. "I see. All right, keep plainclothes on him for the rest of the day, and switch them up regularly. I doubt he'll skip town, but if he does, be ready for him."  
"Of course."  
  
  
He read the reports in silence, taking in their contents with a quiet sort of disinterest. Nothing worth noting, as usual, though the two gunblade specialists would be dispatched on their field exam, and that was always worth a look. Cid Kramer took a sip of his coffee as he looked over the list again, leaning back in his leather chair. Zell Dincht, the very essence of exuberence with all the outstanding qualities of an irritating prick. Cid would make a point to calm him down. After Zell, it was just Squall and Seifer, two sides of the same coin. He could see the potential between them; if only they could relate to one another. Perhaps the exam would give them that opportunity.  
"Come in," he called toward the door in response to a knock.  
"Sir."  
"Ah, hello," Cid smiled. "What can I do for the GM faculty?"  
"We have expressed our concerns over Instructor #14 with you," the squat, uniformed man began, "and at this point, we will request action."  
"I don't really know what you mean," Cid's brow furrowed. "What brought this on?"  
"We feel that her influence on Leonhart and Almasy is less than authoritative, to say the least. I suggest moving them to Aki's group, and dispatching the other cadets accordingly."  
"I have spoken to you on many occasions about this, and you will accept my point of view on the situation," replied Cid firmly. "Quistis may not be right for that specific group, but I see no reason to dismiss her entirely from-  
"That will be all," he replied shortly. "We are not a non-profit organisation."  
"Yes, I'm well aware of that."  
"She is not beneficial to the flow of funds, and therefore must be removed from the system."  
"I will speak to her later. You may leave."  
  
The faculty member excused himself without a word, leaving Cid in his chair, angry with himself and the Faculty. Try as he might, he just couldn't see them as human; they worked as machines in answer to their master's every whim, and thus, Cid couldn't control them at all. He was especially sensitive toward Quistis Trepe on behalf of his wife...and he didn't want to think about that. Instead he turned his attention to the morning paper. The headline: a double homicide.  
  
'We have no suspects as of yet,' commented Officer Larry Birken, who is reportedly heading up the investigation. However, his statement was later discounted by another officer from the same precinct ...  
  
Seifer tossed the paper into the trashcan; he didn't much like to read about Deling City politics, especially from the newspaper.  
"Ready to go?"  
"Yeah, I just gotta grab my- what the hell are you doing here?"  
Zell Dincht sneered. "Like I wanted to come. Quistis sent me to get you. You're ten minutes late."  
"Yeah, I know that," he snapped, smoothing down his hair and pulling on his jacket. "Tell her to hold up."  
"It's not her decision," Zell replied, irritation heavy in his voice. "The sub leaves in about half an hour, man..."  
Seifer grabbed his gunblade and headed toward the door. Zell jumped out of the way in alarm. "I'm headed that way now. And don't ever come here again."  
Zell muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "Burn in hell", but Seifer wasn't listening. He had rushed out of his dorm so quickly that he seemed to have forgotten his bravado, which was a necessity for spending any sort of time with dear Instructor Trepe. Of course, it had never occurred to Seifer that his disobedience could get her sacked until several days prior, so he had conveniently decided to lay off for a while. He enjoyed tormenting her, but it'd be no use if she got fired.  
  
"You're almost fifteen minutes late."  
A pair of stern blue eyes looked at him reprovingly from behind elegant eyeglasses. As usual, she wasn't pleased with his performance. This was, of course, what he intended. Always.  
"What, been timing me?" he snapped. "Let's just go."  
Seifer looked around. "Where's Squall?"  
"In the car, waiting," Quistis replied silkily.  
"With the air conditioner," Zell added, prompting Quistis to roll her eyes. "We ready, Instructor?"  
"Yes. Seifer, let's go."  
  
  
It was after three in the afternoon when Luke finally awakened. He cursed himself for falling asleep; if he'd slept past five, he'd never have forgiven his own stupidity. A nice shower was what he felt was necessary at the moment, and such was what he decided to do. He slipped into the bathroom of his apartment, undressed, and cranked the water to as hot as it would go; the apartment complex had a subnormal water heating system, and as a result, Luke's showers didn't ordinarily last longer than ten minutes before it became like bathing in an arctic lake. It seemed much less than normal when the icy twinge on his back told him it was time to get out. He stepped out into his room and, after toweling off, put on a casual pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. He tucked his gun into his belt, leaving the grip barely visible contrasting against the black of his shirt. On the subject of contrast, his residual self-image of a tall, lean, imposing man couldn't have contrasted more with the dark, brooding figure that he saw in the mirror. He sat down on the bed and picked up a pencil; drawing always took his mind off of things, and he had gotten pretty good at it. He tried a sketch of himself, using the image in the mirror as a base. It took him about half an hour to draw out, and it reflected his mood; the picture made him look like an overgrown bird-of-prey scrawling something in an arcane language. Nonetheless, he simply tossed it aside, and headed for the door.  
  
"He just left. Looks like he's cooperating."  
"Good," Forne's voice boomed over the comm. "I'll be waiting." 


End file.
